


The Fugitives

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 04:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16256441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: The agents are wounded on a mission in remote Minnesota and find help from someone they didn't expect.





	The Fugitives

They were unfortunately outed by a mangy dog scrounging for food in the dark night.

“I despise canines,” growled Illya as the barking alerted the THRUSHmen to their presence. The enemy had been busy unloading illegal drugs from several boats in the harbor at Castle Danger, a hamlet on the Minnesota shore of Lake Superior. That activity ceased as they took up arms and began firing their standard THRUSH rifles into the woods above them.

“Dogs will be,” Napoleon uttered as he tried to shoo away their nemesis with one hand while firing sleep darts with the other. “Retreat, Ill-” A bullet to his left shoulder silenced any further speech and sent him to his knees.

Illya continued shooting as he helped Napoleon to his feet. Thanks to the adrenaline pumping through him, he didn't feel the bullet pierce his side and another scrape his thigh. He only noticed that Napoleon seemed heavier.

Napoleon recovered enough to resume shooting. Between the two of them, they felled every armed person who hadn't taken cover.

“Go!” shouted Napoleon. He put his right arm around Illya's shoulder. 

Another shot from the harbor grazed Napoleon's head, plummeting him into unconsciousness.

Illya struggled to keep Napoleon afoot as he turned to identify the shooter. Too busy celebrating his shot to take cover again, the THRUSH collapsed from Illya's dart to his neck.

Determination to get Napoleon to help and safety propelled Illya to push forward despite growing awareness of his own wounds. He dragged his friend to the highway and finally to their rental car partially concealed in a ditch.

Illya wrestled Napoleon into the back seat. He paused to recover from the exertion and control the increasing pain. He heard what sounded like several people crashing through the trees. Line of sight wasn't an issue – yet. He staggered to the driver's door. Seconds later, he was gunning the engine and heading south to Two Harbors, 11 long miles away.

It quickly became apparent that he'd never make it there. Driving off the road and off a cliff into the lake was a very real probability. He almost succeeded when the car edged to within a few inches of the minimal lakeside shoulder.

He shuddered when he realized what had drawn him back to full awareness: a siren moving north at great speed. _Local sheriff? Did THRUSH call him?_ He shuddered again at the possibility that the law had THRUSH connections.

Luckily, he spied a nearly hidden turnoff on the right. He pulled in and doused the lights well before the advancing car passed.

Though the night was black, Illya's vision darkened more until he heard a groan of misery from the backseat. It was the impetus he needed to stay alert. His vision cleared to reveal a slender slit of yellow light ahead. Turning the lights back on, he slowly drove up the steep, rutted road. “Might be help, Napoleon,” he whispered, more to reassure himself than his friend. Sometime during the journey, the light vanished.

He stopped just shy of the rear bumper of a Nash Metropolitan parked in front of a simple cabin. He fished the flashlight out of the glove compartment and used it to find his way to the front door. 

The two porch steps seemed liked two thousand. Using the flashlight, Illya knocked on the door before leaning heavily on it. “Please,” he said, voice cracking, “my friend is in need of assistance.” Then he slid down the door, unconscious before becoming a heap on the splintered decking.

oOo

The man inside debated with himself. Should he risk helping these people who might be chasing him or should he follow the oath he had taken so many years ago?

The oath won, as he knew it would. With only a flickering candle shedding any light, he opened the door and a slight body swathed in black from head to toe and with a blackened face, fell across the threshold. He dragged the man inside, rousing him.

“Thanks. Friend in car. Head, shoulder wounds.” And he was out again.

The man chanced turning on the solitary overhead light so he could find his way to the friend.

Eventually, he had both men inside the cabin, placing them side by side on the dirty floor. He went through the pockets of the first man. His brow furrowed at the U.N.C.L.E. card identifying the man as Illya Kuryakin. _Is U.N.C.L.E. after me, too?_ The man immediately dismissed that notion as ridiculous.

The second man's ID gave his name as Napoleon Solo. He snorted, wondering if his middle name could possibly be any worse.

Delaying no longer, he cut the clothes from each agent and examined them thoroughly. In addition to their new wounds, there was plentiful evidence that these weren't their first. He was grateful that the cabin's owner valued being prepared with a variety of medical supplies. He began treating them, relishing using his skills as he had before his living nightmare began.

oOo

Illya stirred from the pain in his side and leg to find himself on the floor, covered with a clean wool blanket. He sensed Napoleon near him, sensed his steady breaths. He looked over to see his partner similarly covered but on a narrow bed. He sighed with gratitude and relief.

He felt someone hovering near him. He looked to find the good Samaritan squatting next to him. “Thank you,” he croaked through a dry mouth.

“You're welcome. Glad I could help,” the man said in a shy, gravelly voice.

Illya regarded him carefully. Flat-black hair, obviously colored. Dark brown eyes filled with compassion and concern. Medium Caucasian complexion. Regal nose. Dimpled chin. Sky-blue shirt patchy with blood – _ours, I presume_ – and faded denim jeans. He'd seen this man before. In several photographs.

Then he had it. A fugitive, like he and Napoleon were at the moment.

The man stood and backed away, having read the recognition on Illya's face.

“No cause for alarm. My partner and I are not involved in the search for Doctor Richard Kimble.”

the end  
copyright 2018

**Author's Note:**

> I purposely didn't add _The Fugitive (T.V.)_ to the Fandoms field; otherwise, there wouldn't be a surprise ending.
> 
> Thanks to CoriKay for the beta.
> 
> Response to a Section VII challenge using the prompts _sky blue_ and _propel_


End file.
